Three Christmas Wishes

by Sheila Roberts

  There was silence on the other end.

  “I know, it seems crazy, but I’m going to have a non-wedding reception. I’m inviting every senior in town and all our friends and family who can make it. And I’m going to wear my wedding gown!”

  “Are you sure?” Mom asked. She sounded worried. My daughter has lost her mind.

  “Yes, I am. The money’s already been spent, so why not get what I paid for? Anyway, if I just sit at home and feel sorry for myself, that gives Sean and Emily power over me, and I refuse to let them have it. I’m going on with my life, starting this Saturday.”

  “I’ll make the calls.”

  “Thanks, Mom. And tell Grammy to invite all her friends. I want to fill the Olympic Room to overflowing.”

  “All right!” Mom said, catching the vision.

  Oh, yes. This was going to be fun. Riley called Noel. “Do you have plans for Saturday?”

  “I wish,” Noel said.

  “Well, now you do. Dig out your bridesmaid dress. I’m still having my reception at the country club.”

  “But you’re not getting married,” Noel pointed out.

  “That doesn’t mean I can’t have a party. The venue’s already paid for and I’m going to use it. Oh, and tell your parents. And invite a date if you want.”

  “I don’t know who I’d invite.”

  “You could bring the house-flipper,” Riley suggested. “You are still trying to butter him up, aren’t you?”

  “No. Yes. It’s complicated.”

  “Well, if you want to, you can,” Riley said and left it at that. Then she called Jo.

  “Good for you!” her sister cheered. “I’m proud of you.”

  Riley smiled. Yes, good for her. She could hardly wait for Saturday.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Wow! Riley was so inspiring. How had she managed to turn around such an awful disappointment? Noel wished she knew.

  She also wished she knew how Ben was doing with his number-crunching. She hadn’t heard back from him and she was leery of calling him for fear of becoming an irritating pest. At least that was what she told herself. Deep down she was afraid to call for fear of hearing that the numbers had refused to crunch and she was out of luck.

  She set her cell phone back on the desk and returned to working on her new project, plan B.

  Trevor Truman had never seen such a beautiful woman. From her obsidian eyes to her ruby-red mouth, she was everything he’d ever dreamed of.

  Pathetic, scoffed Marvella.

  Actually, it was.

  You need to come up with a better plan B or we’re going to wind up homeless.

  A better plan B. Like what? Robbing a bank? Selling her body? (Would she get any takers?) She heaved a sigh. If she couldn’t find a way to make a deal with Ben, what kind of house could she get that would be comparable to this one?

  Probably nothing. She’d have to rent an apartment. At a higher rate than she was paying now.

  Like you can afford that, Marvella jeered. Marvella was not being very helpful today.

  “So then I’ll move back in with my parents until I can figure something out,” Noel muttered.

  She sat back and stared at her pathetic start to a romance novel. This was not going to work. Even if she could come up with a brilliant idea and get it written in the next three weeks, it would take time to market it. Maybe an ebook?

  No. She needed immediate money. She went online to the Whispering Pines Chronicle site and checked out the classifieds. Harrison Hospital in nearby Belfair was looking for nurses, Got Gutters wanted someone with gutter experiences and...what was this? The Rusty Saw was now hiring for their morning shift.

  She could handle taking orders and delivering pancakes and coffees. She donned Jo’s skinny jeans, the classic white blouse and her boots, put on some makeup and braved the snowy streets to go to the restaurant, with visions of dollars dancing in her head. Why hadn’t she thought of moonlighting some place like this a year ago? She’d have had a lot more money in savings.

  Oh, yeah. A year ago she’d thought she was going to be a household name by now. A year ago she’d been very naive. Having three children’s books published did not a Dr. Seuss make. At least not in her case.

  The Rusty Saw was once an IHOP but that chain had hopped on long ago and the place had been taken over by a former truck driver named Randy (nickname Rusty) Sawyer. The decor was stuck in the seventies but that didn’t bother Rusty’s customers. They came for the oversize waffles with blackberry syrup, the biscuits and sausage gravy, and the chicken-fried steak. The place always did a good business. And good business surely meant good tips.

  Rusty himself was seated at a booth in the back, reading the paper. He was a big hulk of a man who dressed in flannel and jeans. His hair still held hints of the red that had probably earned him his nickname.

  He smiled at Noel. “Now, who have we got here?”

  “Have you hired a server yet?” she asked, twisting the strap of her purse.

  Stop that! Marvella commanded. You’re acting desperate.

  I am desperate.

  “Not yet.” He set aside his paper and looked her up and down.

  At that moment Mrs. Sawyer made her appearance, carrying a coffee mug. Her body was as wide as her husband’s. Her smile...not so much.

  “Are you applying for the job?” she asked, sitting down across from him.

  “Yes, I am.”

  The woman looked her up and down, too. “Got any experience?”

  “No, but I’m a fast learner.”

  “When can you start?” Rusty asked, grinning at her.

  His wife frowned at him. “Not so fast. You need to fill out a job application. And we need references. Where have you worked before this?”

  “Well, I used to work at The Book Nook.” If the bookstore hadn’t closed two years ago, she could’ve gone back there to supplement her writer’s income. Suzanne would have rehired her in a heartbeat.

  “Where have you worked since then?” asked Mrs. Sawyer.

  “At home. I’m self-employed.”

  Now Mrs. Sawyer was looking suspicious.

  “I write children’s books,” Noel explained.

  Mrs. Sawyer suddenly looked friendlier. “Would we have heard of you?”

  “I don’t know. I write books featuring a monster who helps children.”

  “Marvella?” the woman asked eagerly.

  This had to be a good sign. Noel nodded.

  “Our granddaughter loves your books,” gushed Mrs. Sawyer. Then she looked suspicious again. “But you’re a writer. Why do you need this job?”

  Because I’m a writer. “I’m trying to earn extra money so I can buy the house I’m renting.”

  Rusty smiled encouragingly at Noel while his missus sat contemplating.

  At last the true decision-maker spoke. “Okay,” said Mrs. Sawyer. “We’ll have you fill out the application and a W-2 form. Come in tomorrow and we’ll give you a try. You’ll work a five-hour shift starting at six.”

  Noel nodded. “And what’s the salary?”

  “Minimum wage,” Rusty said. “You make up for it in tips,” he assured her.

  They were probably right about the tips. Everyone knew that was how restaurant servers made their real living. Which was why, when she could afford to go out, Noel always tipped generously.

  “Thank you,” she breathed. Surely that extra paycheck and the tips would plump up her bank account. She’d go by Ben Fordham’s office later and tell him she was well on her way to pulling together the money he needed if he could give her a little more time. Hopefully, he wouldn’t ask her to be specific about how much time she needed.

  She duly filled out the forms and then was given two yellow polo s
hirts printed with Rusty Saw and the diner’s logo, a plate of pancakes sitting on a tree stump, to be worn over black slacks.

  “We’ll take the cost out of your first paycheck,” Mrs. Sawyer explained.

  Between that and taxes her first paycheck would be pitiful. But there’d be tips. This was going to work. Yes, it was.

  Back home she called her mother and told her the good news. Mom was working her shift at the library, but she always answered her cell phone when her daughters called.

  “Guess what! I got a job,” Noel crowed.

  “That’s very nice, but why were you out looking for a job? Oh, no. Didn’t your publisher offer you a new contract?”

  “They’re going to, but I need some extra money.”

  “The house,” Mom guessed. “You should have told us. We’ll help you.”

  “This isn’t a good time for you guys, especially with Aimi getting married now.”

  “We have some money in savings.”

  Which Aimi would probably burn through. “You need that money yourselves,” Noel reminded her.

  “We want to be able to help our children. Is Mrs. Bing going to sell the house to you?”

  Maybe she shouldn’t have called her mom. “Um, no.”

  “I thought she wanted to sell it.”

  “She did. She sold it already.”

  “Oh, Noel, I’m so sorry.”

  “I might still have a chance to buy it. She sold it to a house-flipper.”

  “Oh.” Yes, Mom watched those house-flipping shows, too, and she knew what that meant.

  “I’m hoping to work out a deal with him.”

  “Sweetheart, there’ll be other houses,” Mom said gently.

  Not like hers. “I have to at least try.”

  “Well, then, tell me about this new job of yours. I hope it won’t interfere with your writing.”

  “No. I’ll be able to work my writing around it just fine.”

  “What’s the job?”

  “I’ll be waiting tables at The Rusty Saw.”

  “Waitressing is hard work,” Mom said. “I did it when I was in college.”

  “Yes, but the tips are good, right?”

  “Depends on where you’re working. If you’re at a high-end restaurant, yes.”

  The Rusty Saw wasn’t exactly a high-end restaurant.

  “Are you working nights?”

  “No, I’ll be doing the morning shift. Which will be great because then I can come home and write.”

  “I’m not sure you’ll make that much in tips serving breakfast,” Mom said. “The big tippers are the dinner crowd.”

  This was disheartening. Still, what else could she do? She didn’t have any valuable art to sell, nothing to put on eBay. And the classifieds hadn’t exactly been brimming with job opportunities.

  “When do you start?”

  “Tomorrow morning. They hired me on the spot. It turns out their granddaughter likes my books.”

  “Everyone likes your books,” Mom said.

  “Not enough everyones.”

  “Oh, honey, your time will come. I feel bad that you’re having to do this, though.”

  “You always say there’s nothing wrong with good, honest work,” Noel told her.

  “That’s absolutely true, but you’re already working hard on your writing career.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “I do admire your ambition,” her mother said. “Oh, and speaking of work, send up a little prayer. Daddy has a job interview tomorrow—managing the office for a nuclear pharmacy in Silverdale. It’ll be a bit of a commute but the salary is good.”

  Her father was itching to get back to work. It had been so wrong when his company laid him off. Downsizing and hiring younger men for less money. So unfair. Daddy was fifty-seven now, not an easy age for a man to find employment.

  “I will,” she promised. “I sure hope he gets this.”

  “It would be a real boost. And then,” Mom added, “we’d be in more of a position to help you, to help both our daughters.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine,” Noel said.

  “I know you will. Now I’d better get back to work. I’m in the middle of cataloging.”

  And Noel had some new pages to write. But first she wanted to share her news with Jo and Riley.

  Jo was her usual succinct and to-the-point self. “You’re nuts. Just sleep with the house-flipper,” she said, echoing Marvella.

  Riley wasn’t much more encouraging. “It’s an awful lot of work for not much money.”

  “I can’t think of anything else to do,” Noel said. “I have to prove to Ben that I mean business.”

  “Well, I hope it works out, and I hope you won’t be too pooped to have fun at my non-wedding party.”

  “I won’t. I’m so glad you’re doing this. If I were you, I’d be curled up in a ball, sucking on chocolate. You’re my hero.”

  “It beats sitting home feeling sorry for myself.”

  Yes, that was a waste of time. Noel needed to follow in her friend’s footsteps. No matter what happened, she was going to make the best of things. But meanwhile she’d work hard to ensure that she got her house. She’d keep trying to make this work until Ben told her straight out to forget it. Quitters never win and winners never quit.

  Oh, stop already and get to work, said Marvella.

  Right.

  She got a lot written and rewarded herself with a frozen pizza for dinner. She ate it cuddled under a blanket on the sofa watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. Then she pulled out her favorite Georgette Heyer Regency romance and took it to bed. She set her alarm for 5:00 a.m. and then read herself to sleep. She was just dreaming about eloping to Gretna Green in a carriage with Ben Fordham, who was all dressed up in a powdered wig and breeches, when the alarm yanked her out of his arms and back into cold reality. The job.

  This would be fun. She’d have a chance to meet people, make them happy serving them pancakes and bacon and eggs. Yes, this had been a good idea.

  Oh, but why did the good idea have to start so early in the morning?

  A shower woke her up and some coffee got her going. She toasted a slice of bread, smeared peanut butter on it then ate it while putting on her makeup. Then she pulled her hair back in a ponytail, donned her uniform and headed off to work.

  Mrs. Sawyer let her in. A chunky college-age girl was stuffing sugar packets into their holders. She waved and called a cheery hello; Noel smiled and nodded at her.

  “Get back to work, Summer,” said Mrs. Sawyer. “This is a training day for you so you won’t get paid,” she told Noel.

  Noel blinked. What kind of deal was this? “Is that legal?” Oh, dear. Maybe she shouldn’t have said that out loud.

  Now Mrs. Sawyer blinked. “Well, I guess we can pay you something.”

  Don’t let her walk all over you, Marvella urged.

  Noel was sweating now and her heart was pumping. “I’d like it if you’d pay me what we agreed on.” For someone who’d just walked in the door, she was being awfully assertive. This was it. She was going to get fired for sure. Fired before she even started.

  Mrs. Sawyer heaved a long-suffering sigh, her massive chest rising like a swell on the ocean. “Very well. Come on. I’ll show you around.”

  There wasn’t that much to show. The open kitchen was a long, stainless-steel counter and grill behind the lunch counter. A skinny guy in his thirties with tattoos on both arms and his neck was busy getting organized for the morning breakfast. He wore the typical white chef’s apron and toque.

  “This is Bradley, our head grill operator,” Mrs. Sawyer said.

  Bradley grunted, which Noel translated as hello.

  “Hang your dupes here,” Mrs. Sawy
er said, pointing to the apparatus Noel had seen in any number of restaurants with order slips hanging from them.

  “Dupes?”

  “Your orders.”

  “Oh.” Noel could feel her cheeks warming. She nodded.

  They moved on to the break room, which was down the hall at the end of the world. Tiny and slightly dingy. Then to the drinks station and the computer, where she’d input orders and print out the checks. Mrs. Sawyer escorted her to the back of the restaurant and motioned to several tables and three booths. “This will be your station.”

  “All these tables?” It sure seemed like a lot. What if a whole bunch of people came in at once?

  “A good waitress can handle that without a problem,” Mrs. Sawyer said.

  “Of course,” she murmured, her cheeks going from warm to sizzling. Old Bradley could probably fry pancakes on them right now.

  Another waitress was nearby, busy filling salt and pepper shakers. She was somewhere in her forties and she looked tired. “This is Misty. She’ll help you out if you get into trouble,” Mrs. Sawyer said.

  “I can’t help you out too much,” Misty warned.

  Noel wished the cheerful Summer was working back here with her.

  “Your shift extends into the beginning of lunch. You’ll set up tables as customers leave,” Mrs. Sawyer said. “Morning shift always fills the salt and pepper shakers and makes sure there’s plenty of sugar and sugar substitute packets in their holders. Our son Grady does the busing. He gets ten percent of your tips. We have a pretty big breakfast crowd so don’t stand around visiting with the customers. Your job is to get their food to them and keep their coffee coming. Got it?”

  Noel nodded, attempting to look both eager and capable.

  “Good. You can go ahead and help Misty set up. We open at seven.”

  Noel got to work.

  “You done this before?” Misty asked.

  “No.”

  Misty shook her head. “You’ll run your butt off. It’s a killer on the feet, too. I don’t know what you were thinking wearing those shoes,” she added, pointing to Noel’s flats.

  Of course, she should’ve thought of that. Tomorrow she’d wear tennis shoes.

  The doors opened promptly at seven and the customers started wandering in—a few men in business suits, a couple of guys in coveralls and a smattering of retirees. Mrs. Sawyer morphed into a happy woman, giving everyone a friendly greeting and showing them to their tables.